Unlucky For Some (30 page)

“An ambulance is on its way, Mr. Baker. Please don’t attempt to move the casualty. If I could just have a few more details . . .”

Lloyd could see Tony Baker kneeling beside someone dressed in a Morris dancer’s costume, lying on the ground, blood from his head soaking into the jacket that covered him, and hurried over to them. Grace Halliday had been right: Shaw had indeed been hurt. The pathway forked into a rough Y shape, and Baker and the victim were a few yards along the left-hand fork.

“What happened?” he asked, kneeling down beside Shaw.

“I’ve no idea—I was waiting for Grace at the car. It’s parked by the lake—down that way.” He pointed. “She was late, so I walked back up to meet her, and I just found him like this. It’s Jack Shaw—he’s a close friend of the Hallidays. I’ve phoned for an ambulance—they said not to move him. And I’ve tried to get hold of Mike Waterman, to tell him to put someone on the gate to guide the ambulance when it gets here, but he’s not answering his landline or his mobile.”

“It’s all right,” said Judy. “Mrs. Halliday can tell the ambulance where to come. I’ll tell DI Finch what’s happened.”

Lloyd heard footsteps, and twisted round to see a security officer emerge from where the path forked off the other way. Another player in this drama who he had never met, but from the uniform and the general description, it had to be Keith Scopes. He was breathless, and agitated. He stopped when he came upon the tableau.

“Keith—have you any idea what’s been going on here?” Judy asked.

“No. But Stephen Halliday just threatened me with a rifle. I think he’s gone mad.”

“I thought I heard a shot,” said Baker.

Lloyd groaned silently. Halliday was shooting at his own mother? This just got messier and messier.

“I paid no attention to it—you hear shots all the time round here.” Baker looked at Shaw’s head wound. “I can’t tell if that’s a bullet wound or not.”

“When did you hear the shot?” asked Judy.

“About ten minutes ago,” said Baker. “Didn’t you hear it?”

“No, but we were at the other side of the grounds ten minutes ago.” She turned back to Scopes. “Did you hear a shot?”

“No. That would be when I was talking to DI Finch up where the Morris dancing is.”

“So where’s Halliday now?”

“In the summerhouse. That path’s a shortcut to it from here.” Scopes looked at the injured man. “Is that Jack Shaw? Has he been shot?”

“Did Halliday actually threaten you?” Judy asked.

“Not in so many words. But when I opened the door, he pointed the gun right at me, and asked if I wanted something—you know. Like he’d shoot me if I said yes.”

That was a threat, thought Lloyd. It was technically an assault.

“Is there anyone in there with him?”

“No.”

No hostage, then, thank God. But a man threatening people with a loaded rifle, who had already shot someone, meant that Judy had no option but to bring in the ARV. Poor Judy. If Lloyd were a cliché man, he would think that this was a baptism by fire.

“Did you see anyone when you were here before?”

Scopes frowned. “I wasn’t here before.”

“When you were on your way to the summerhouse,” said Judy.

“Oh—no. I used the other path. The one from the house—near where I was talking to Mr. Finch. It goes directly to the summerhouse.”

Lloyd was worried about Shaw. Baker had done as much as anyone could do to help him; all they could do now was monitor his pulse and his breathing and wait for the ambulance. He lifted up the jacket covering the man to see if he had any other injuries, and frowned. “What’s that?” he asked.

“The bells that are part of the costume. But if you look more closely . . .”

Lloyd bent his head closer, and could see the two five-pound notes underneath. He could also see the other set of bells just poking out of Shaw’s pocket, which was odd.

“But he’s still alive,” said Baker. “Maybe our man’s slipped up this time.”

He was indeed alive, and breathing—laboriously and evidently breathing. Which was even odder, in Lloyd’s opinion, than the business with the bells. He replaced the jacket.

“Is Grace all right?” asked Baker. “Was she involved in this?”

“Yes,” said Lloyd. “To both questions.” Baker’s concern seemed a little belated to him. “Were you worried about her, that you came looking for her?”

“No—I just thought I’d walk up and see if she was on her way. Time was very tight, because we were due back here at one o’clock.”

“Did you see anyone on your way down to the lake?” asked Judy.

“No—no one at all.”

Judy pointed to a ragged scar on a tree behind where Shaw lay. “Look, Lloyd—what’s that?”

Lloyd stood up and moved cautiously closer to it, not wanting to disturb any possible evidence. It was level with his eyes, and he was as certain as he could be that the SOCOs would find a bullet lodged in there. Ballistics would know the angle of trajectory. They would find out exactly where the bullet had come from, where the gunman had been when he fired. “You heard only one shot?” he asked Baker.

“Yes, just one.”

The bullet must have grazed Shaw’s head as he threw himself onto Grace Halliday, then lodged in the tree, Lloyd thought. He’d remained conscious long enough to tell Grace Halliday what to do, then passed out.

“Where were you when you heard it?” he asked.

“I was waiting in the VIP car park—well, that’s what we’re calling it. It’s a couple of tennis courts down by the lake. It would have been about five to eleven when I heard it, I think. But I didn’t think anything of it—you often hear shots round here. When Grace hadn’t arrived by five past, I started walking back up to meet her, and I found him a moment before you got here.”

“How far away is the summerhouse?” Lloyd asked Scopes.

“It takes about a minute to get there along that path—it goes straight through the woods. You can see it from the lake, but you can’t get to it from there unless you’ve got a boat. Do you want me to show you?”

“No, I do not. If we can see the summerhouse, then Halliday can see us. And he’s the one with the rifle.”

“Oh, yeah.”

My God, Lloyd thought, if they had brains, they’d be frightening.

“Do you know if there’s a phone in there?” asked Judy.

“There never used to be,” said Scopes.

“Stephen’s got a mobile phone,” said Baker. “But I didn’t get an answer when I tried it earlier.” He gave her the number.

“Did you see Stephen entering the summerhouse?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking at it—I was watching the pathway for Grace.”

“Well—thank you for your help, Mr. Baker,” said Judy. “We’ll take it from here. Mr. Scopes, could you escort Mr. Baker back to the fairground, please? You’ll find DI Finch there.” While Lloyd checked Shaw’s pulse again, she rang Tom and told him to expect Baker and Scopes, then dialed another number, waited for a few moments, and gave up with a sigh. “I thought if I could contact Stephen, we might avoid what’s going to happen,” she said. “But he’s got it switched off, or its battery’s dead.” She rang Tom again, and reluctantly told him that they needed the ARV. “How’s Shaw doing?” she asked, when she finished her call.

“Not too well,” said Lloyd.

“The ambulance is here—it’s on its way down now.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Tom’s going to let Waterman know what’s going on before the place is crawling with police. And by the time Shaw’s on his way to hospital, the ARV should be here.” She sighed. “Marks out of ten?”

“Ten, of course.” Lloyd smiled.

“Seriously. Am I doing what you would have done?”

“Seriously?” Lloyd thought for a moment. “No, not really.”

“Why?” she asked, her face falling. “What would you have done differently?”

“I would have nipped along to the summerhouse, disarmed him myself, got loads of commendations and saved the taxpayers a lot of money, but . . .” He paused, shrugged, and smiled indulgently. “You’re just a woman, and you’re doing your best.”

There had been no possibility of confusion, but Gary had had to be certain. And now it was beyond doubt. Davy was still alive at eleven o’clock. That meant that Headless had nothing to do with anything; it was just some well-behaved citizen putting his rubbish in the bin, not someone dumping the knife. Gary was painfully aware that this meant rubbing out everything they thought they knew and starting again.

He rang DI Finch’s mobile, and told him that Headless was a red herring, and that Davy Guthrie could have been killed any time up until he was found. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But I thought Davy must have been dead by quarter to eleven, because I was so sure Gertie had seen the murderer dump the knife.”

“You weren’t alone,” said Finch. “We all thought that.”

Gary sighed. “I suppose that’s what you get when your star witnesses are a bag lady, a drag queen and a blind eighty-year-old.”

“Well, maybe it is, but it might have got us on the right track by accident—get back to Barton as soon as you can. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all hands on deck.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gary put down the phone, started the engine, and pulled out of the lay-by. He hadn’t told DI Finch that he was halfway back to Barton already. That was how long it had taken him to pluck up the courage to ring him.

Michael and Ben had had a long talk about the money. It was a considerable sum, and Ben had discussed various things he might like to do with it. Michael would have enjoyed it more if he hadn’t seen those brochures, but perhaps they hadn’t had anything to do with Halliday, because Ben hadn’t shown any sign of wanting to slip away, and now Halliday would be safely at the Tulliver, because Grace was definitely here at opening time, watching the Morris dancing with Jack Shaw.

Ben was upstairs getting dressed. He wanted to enjoy the fair, he said—it wasn’t everyone who got to have a fairground in their own backyard. And Michael brightened a little, as he thought what the brochures might mean. Maybe Ben had finally met a girl—maybe he was home to tell him that. Maybe that was why he was house-hunting. Could he have misunderstood that conversation he’d heard him having with Halliday in February? He thought about what he’d heard, and reluctantly concluded that he couldn’t have misunderstood. But perhaps that had been a final fling—getting all that nonsense out of his system. At any rate, they didn’t seem to be too interested in each other now, so things were definitely looking up.

“I’ll get it!” Ben called, rattling downstairs, when the doorbell rang.

Michael came out into the hall, to see him open the door to Detective Inspector Finch. “Good morning, Inspector,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve met my son Ben. Ben, this is Detective Inspector Finch.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Finch, then looked at Michael, his face troubled. “I’m afraid there’s been a serious incident here this morning, Mr. Waterman.”

Michael frowned. “What sort of incident?”

“Someone’s discharged a firearm in your woods, and we have a casualty, I’m afraid. We’re having to cordon off the approaches to the summerhouse and the lake.”

“But a friend of mine’s waiting for me in the summerhouse,” said Ben. “I was just on my way to meet him there.”

Michael stared at him. “What did you say?”

Ben ignored him. “His name’s Stephen Halliday. Have you seen him? Is he all right? Who’s been hurt?”

Finch looked slightly thrown. “Well—that whole area’s been cleared of everyone but police personnel, sir, so . . . I shouldn’t worry about him. He isn’t the casualty.” He turned back to Michael as Ben was trying, unsuccessfully, to make a call on his mobile phone. “And I’m afraid we’re having to clear the grounds, Mr. Waterman. We’ll be making an announcement over the loudspeakers, asking people to make their way to their cars, and leave.”

Michael couldn’t take all this in. “But—but some of the people here have their cars parked at the lake,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but they can’t collect them at the moment. Don’t worry about it—we’ll sort something out.”

That boy was waiting for him in the summerhouse? He had been right in the first place. Ben’s sudden desire to be home had had nothing to do with May Day, or filial concern, or even advice about his legacy. All he was interested in was seeing that boy so they could . . . he couldn’t even think the words.

“And, I’m sorry, but we must ask you and your staff to stay in the house until further notice, for your own safety. We’ll keep you informed, sir—and I apologize for the disruption.”

Finch left, and Michael slammed the door, turning to face Ben. “So that was your game, was it?”

Ben looked at him in disbelief. “He’s just told you that there’s a gunman loose in the grounds,” he said. “He’s shot someone. They’re evacuating all these people. Is that all you can think about, at a time like this? My sex life?”

“I want to know what game you think you’re playing.”

“It isn’t a game. Stephen and I have been together for almost three years.”

Michael stared at him. It had been going on for three years? “Oh, I know it isn’t a game,” he said. “I saw the estate agents’ literature! I know what you and that Halliday boy are planning—well, you can forget it! Do you hear me? Forget it!”

“What right had you to go through my things?” demanded Ben.

“They were lying on your bed! That’s not going through your things, for God’s sake!”

“You’re interfering in my private affairs!”

“Affairs is the word! Well, let me tell you something. You are my son, and no son of mine is a poof. Is that clear enough?”

Ben shook his head, his eyes still blazing. “You can’t tell me how to live my life,” he said. “I’m gay, and you’re stuck with it. I’m not going to get married and give you grandchildren, so just get that fantasy out of your head.”

Michael closed his eyes. “You’re not gay,” he said. “You’re just confused, that’s all. You’re not gay! I should never have sent you to that bloody school.”

“Oh, for—” Ben hit the side of his fist against the wall in frustration. “The school had nothing to do with it. I didn’t know myself until after I’d left school.”

“See? You didn’t know. You’ve not given girls a chance, Ben.”